


Sunday Morning Serenade

by one_red_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, M/M, Schmoop, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_red_sock/pseuds/one_red_sock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday morning at the Winchester homestead, post-hunting. Just a little slice of heaven. Sam's appreciation for Dean's middle grows right along with the belly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning Serenade

A blackbird trilled discordantly from atop the fencepost, its red-capped wings sparkling in the mid-morning sun. Sam smiled. If he could carry a tune in a friggin’ bucket, he’d be howling _Oh What a Beautiful Morning_ at the top of his lungs but as it stood, he was no more tuneful than the bird.

So he whistled to himself as he flipped pancakes. He had every window in the old house open, letting the wind toss the curtains around and the green smell of Nebraska flood into the kitchen. He’d been up nearly two hours already, and Dean was yet to bat an eye.

But that was just fine by Sam. It gave him the luxury to set up a helluva spread for Dean – Sunday brunch, his very favorite meal of the day.

This had become their happy little ‘retirement’ habit, their well-earned right. No more bullshit poltergeists or exorcisms or feuds with other-planer creatures. Just work-a-day jobs and a ramshackle two-bedroom house on the edge of the prairie. Dean worked late and he worked hard. Hell, they both did, but Dean’s job at the bar took him well into the wee hours of the morning, whereas Sam’s stint on Holderman’s farm wrapped at dusk. Morning was Winchester Time, though Dean defined ‘morning’ a tad differently than Sam.

Sam had Sunday brunch down to a science: flipping pancakes while frying bacon _and_ ham (because there was never enough pig for Dean); scrambling eggs in yet another skillet; starting the coffee maker five minutes before the biscuits were out of the oven; orange juice pre-squeezed the night before and the pièce de résistance, Mrs. Holderman’s blueberry lemon sweet rolls to finish. Those were Sam’s guilty pleasure; he always saved room for them. Dean never did, but he ate them anyway, without fail.

As if on cue, Howard strolled by the fence under the kitchen window and began crowing, noisy proclamations that put the blackbird to shame. Screw sunrise; Howard would and _did_ crow whenever he damned well felt like it. Sam heard Dean groan then holler a “shuddup you douchebag bird.” Another Sunday ritual.

Sam scrubbed his hands clean on a towel and tiptoed into the bedroom. Dean was on his belly, head under the pillow and sizeable backside bare to the sunshine. Despite how hard Dean worked, he wasn’t as, well, _svelte_ as in his hunting days. His ass dimpled like two gorgeously round melons, and there were fistfuls of pudge at his hips that Sam grabbed every chance he got. Even the scars from their less fortunate days were starting to fade, leaving Dean’s skin soft and freckled.

“Howard’s right. Time to greet the day.”

“Go ‘way,” Dean grumped.

“Nope. Not gonna happen.” Sam kneed the side of the mattress and fondled a love handle. Because he could.

“Hey, hey. Tickles. Stop.”

“Coffee’s almost done.”

“Yippity do dah.”

Sam leaned over and let the tips of his hair brush Dean’s shoulders. “Sour cream pancakes with real maple syrup.”

“Hmm?”

“Yup. Scrambled eggs with cheddar. Sharp cheddar.”

The pillow’s edge flipped up and Dean squinted at Sam.

“Mrs. Holderman’s blueberry lem – ”

“Okay, okay, ass hat. I’m up.”

Sam grinned and left Dean to shake the dew off his lily and get dressed. Mission accomplished.

By the time Dean made it to the kitchen table, Sam had every inch covered with heaping platters and bowls and glasses, even a whiskey bottle with black-eyed susans sprouting from the neck as a centerpiece. He bounced his brows and soared his arms out wide.

“Martha Stewart eat your heart out, huh?”

Dean scratched at his belly where it filled his t-shirt and spilled over the waist of his sweats. Some guys might’ve been miserable about getting older, spreading out, but for the Winchesters? It meant they’d survived. They’d lived through all the wars of Heaven and Hell. It was a badge of honor and Dean wore it unabashedly. Sam reveled in providing meals that didn’t come from a QuickieMart or greasy spoon. It was the smallest way he could pay Dean back for … everything.

“Sammy, you’ve outdone yourself.” Dean rubbed his palms together, wide awake and looking for all the world like a kid in a candy store. He met Sam’s gaze, eyes crinkling at their corners.

They paused a moment as they always did, in honor of absent friends, then pulled back chairs in unison and grinned, digging in.

Between mouthfuls of fluffy eggs and honey-smothered biscuits, Dean told Sam about Marty Martins getting a dart stuck in his ass and starting a brawl last night, and how he almost had to break a pool cue over the old fart’s head to get him to cool his jets.

Sam loaded up a second helping for Dean, even before his own first was finished, and talked about delivering three Holderman calves until Dean whined that it was not suitable table conversation and vetoed the topic. They’d probably salt-and-burned hundreds of corpses in various stages of decay, but somehow cow birth was “gross.”

Thick slabs of ham found their way onto Dean’s plate, between the pancakes studded with pecans and the peppered bacon, and he poured himself another glass of juice. His eating turned single-minded now that conversation was running dry, wholly committed to the task. Sam watched in mild awe. Dean’s features had softened, gotten plump, and he looked so much more comfortable and _himself_ with the added weight. It was as if he was meant to be this way. It was perfect, and Sam felt an interested little twitch between his legs.

Dean almost caught him staring and Sam hurried to push aside empty dishes so he could spread open the newspaper and stop thinking with his ‘little’ brain. He skimmed the headlines, blah blah blah, some politician was cheating on his wife, blah. He flipped a few pages and hmmm’ed.

“What?” Dean said around a mouthful of biscuit.

“Dude, maybe we should get a new car.”

Dean nearly choked. “Bite your tongue! Baby still runs.”

“Yeah, but winter’s coming and she sucks in the snow.”

“She does _not_ suck. Ever. You shut your mouth.”

“Make me. You know we could use an SUV or something with four-wheel drive.”

Dean huffed and put an entire strip of bacon in his mouth.

“And a kick-ass stereo. No more cassettes,” Sam cajoled.

Dean washed the bacon down with a swig of coffee and slowed his roll, seemed to be considering the possibility.

“And seat warmers.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, stifled a burp and rubbed absently at his straining shirt. Sam followed the growing curve of Dean’s belly for a moment before looking up expectantly: _Are we going car shopping later or what?_

Dean probably felt like he was betraying an old friend. Sam loved the car too, but hey, they had to be practical. They nearly got stranded in a snow bank last winter and there was nothing sexy about the frozen hour they spent waiting for the tow truck to show up.

Sam slid the final two pancakes to Dean. “Whadya say?”

Dutifully, Dean covered them with syrup and shovelled a mound into his mouth. “I dunno, Sammy.”

“Okay, just think about it.” But Sam knew he almost had him. Dean was always more pliable when blissfully full of food. Sam plopped the last of the ham and bacon on Dean’s plate.

“Dude, I’m so full. Stop.”

“Aw, come on. Finish it off; not much left. Don’t make me throw it out.” Sam got no small amount of contentment seeing Dean with his gut so chock full of the best chow they could afford, it bordered on criminal. And as usual, he didn’t have to bend Dean’s arm far to get him to polish off a meal so they wouldn’t have to bother with left-overs. It was partly selfish, and partly damned adorable. The old cliché ‘fat and sassy’? Yeah, that was Dean.

Dean chased the last slick of syrup around his plate with the last bite of ham, eyed it like the enemy, then stuffed it down. He sighed with satisfaction.

“Oh, oh wait, I almost forgot!” Sam snapped his fingers and jumped up, darting into the kitchen. He returned with a pie tin mounded with big, sticky coils of frosted sweet roll. The over-the-top sugary scent of lemon and blueberries filled the air.

“Jesus, Sam, I can’t.” But Dean couldn’t rip his eyes from the dessert because they both knew how amazing Mrs. Holderman’s baking was. It was going to take some convincing after the enormous brunch, but Sam loved nothing better than a challenge. Except maybe his brother.

He set the plate down in front of Dean with a flourish. “Just one. You know you want it.”

Dean shifted, frowning, belly bumping the edge of the table. “I can’t.”

“What are ya, chicken?”

“Bite me, Sam.”

Sam separated one gooey, ridiculous roll from the bunch and held it inches from Dean’s mouth. “Bite this.”

When Dean remained tight-lipped, Sam rolled his free hand over Dean’s swollen middle. He gently cruised his palm over the firmly packed swell, all warm and coaxing. Dean’s resolve melted like butter in the sun.

Before they were finished, truly finished, Dean had polished off three rolls to Sam’s one and a half and his cheeks were flushed. The old place wasn’t air-conditioned and heat was starting to build up in the kitchen, so they made their way to the front porch to take advantage of the breeze ambling off the plains. 

Dean was so full his t-shirt couldn’t even begin to contain the whole of his belly. He grunted and made a big show of waddling, eyes at half-mast. A wave of bliss washed over Sam, which left him feeling easily as full as Dean. Full to popping and incredibly lucky.

When Dean took a seat on the steps, Sam sidled up behind him, knees to either side of Dean’s shoulders. Sam put fluttery little kisses across his brother’s neck, the skin salty and soft. Dean leaned back against him, still making small disgruntled noises when he had to move more than a few inches.

Sam let his hands drift to Dean’s middle again and Dean relaxed, humming. Sam’s fingers moved in insistent circles, starting at the heavy bottom of Dean’s stomach, lifting up and feeling Dean’s weight as a true, touchable expression of their world together. It was Sam’s success story, and he was so fucking happy, he could explode.

He massaged every bit of Dean’s distended gut, working that lovely layer of fat buffering the bloat of his stretched belly. Dean rested his arms on Sam’s thighs, not a hint of tension in his posture. Even Dean’s fingers were starting to get plump, curling over Sam’s eternally knobby knees.

“Dean?”

At first Dean didn’t answer and Sam thought he’d nodded off into a food coma. His breathing had evened out and he was heavy against Sam’s body. After a nudge, he shifted and murmured, “Yeah?”

Sam set his chin on the pillow of Dean’s shoulder. “If I throw in a sunroof, can we buy that new car?”

Dean chuckled, and it rumbled through his chest. “You little shit.”

Beaming, Sam knew that was a ‘yes.’


End file.
